Kellanved's Reach

Two weeks into her captivity, the mage Gwynn came to see her in her room, or cell as she called it. She was of course blind at this point. The cell had a window, but only rarely did a bird ever come by and she refused to command any to remain, being a prisoner herself.

The mage sat in the one chair while she sat up on the rope and straw pallet of her bed. He sighed, and she imagined him knitting his fingers together across one knee as he regarded her. The few times she’d seen the mage he’d struck her as curiously old in his dress and mannerisms, as if he were in a hurry to age; or perhaps trying to compensate for his youth.

‘You have not been out for some days now,’ he said.

She ignored him.

‘Sister Lean is offering lessons on the dulcimer. Would you be interested?’

Ullara resolutely continued to stare in the direction she was fairly certain the window lay.

‘Or literacy, perhaps?’ Gwynn asked. ‘I am teaching reading and writing. It is a rare and valuable skill.’

She had to turn her head to him at that. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m blind, you fool.’

‘Ah. About that.’

She heard him rise, heard the door open. Then, instantly, miraculously, she could see. It took her a moment to get the perspective right, but it appeared the man was carrying a small wicker cage within which a tiny bird darted and fluttered. He offered it to her. ‘A chickadee. They overwinter here. A hardy bird. Surprisingly resourceful and resilient for its size – rather like you.’

She clutched the cage to her chest. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, her voice thick.

‘Not at all. Can you read and write?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Our family couldn’t afford the tutors.’

‘Ah. Well, then. Lessons?’ She nodded. ‘Very good. The commons, at noon.’ He clapped his hands to his thighs and rose. ‘Until then.’

Ullara proved an avid student; more than once Gwynn expressed his astonishment at the speed with which she advanced. Soon she was pursuing her own studies and her room became cluttered in scrolls and rare texts. She read with her bird, Tiny, on a hook just over her right shoulder.

A month and a half passed and more and more often, despite the diversion of worlds of written histories Ullara had never even guessed existed, she found herself peering up at the window for long hours. Her appetite faded and it seemed to her that she would never escape this new prison.

Late one night her door opened, waking her, and Gwynn entered holding a dimmed lantern. Ullara sat up, alarmed – twice before a stable-lad and then a hired hand had come pushing their way into her attic room in Heng – but back then she’d had her pets to protect her. Both times she’d had to rescue them.

This time the intruder sat in her one chair and regarded her. She pulled her blankets up her chest, blinking suspiciously. ‘Yes?’

‘They say some birds never take to captivity,’ the mage said. ‘They simply give up the will to live and fade away.’ He tilted his head, regarding her. ‘I fear we are tempting the same fate with you.’

‘Are you going to force me to eat?’

Gwynn just smiled. ‘I’ve decided on a much more radical solution.’ He got up and pulled something into the room. Ullara straightened on her pallet; it was a large backpack. He pulled out two long objects, tall boots of oiled hide. ‘Sheepskin lined,’ he told her. Then he tossed her a bundle of clothes. ‘Woollen trousers, sheepskin jacket and mittens. A fur hat.’

She immediately began dressing, while he averted his head.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked as she dressed.

‘I believe it was wrong of us to interfere with your journey and I am sending you on your way. In the pack you’ll find dried meat and grains. Flint and steel and tinder for fires. Tiny here will be your eyes.’

Once she’d finished dressing he rose and shouldered the pack. ‘This way.’

She lifted Tiny from his hook and followed.

He led her through narrow back passages, almost always downwards. The halls became ever more chill, until hoar frost glittered on them in the golden lantern-light. He stopped at a thick door bearing a layer of ice that he began hammering at with the pommel of his dagger.

After some work he was able to edge the door open a crack wide enough for her to slip out. Frigid winds blew into the corridor. Outside, the deep blue of starlight reflected from snow. He handed her the backpack. ‘Fare thee well, little bird.’

She didn’t know what to say, could only gasp, ‘Thank you, Gwynn.’

‘Please do not think too badly of us,’ he answered. ‘Our commander believed he was doing the right thing.’

‘I understand. Fare well. And thank you again.’

‘Thank me by surviving.’

She waved and turned away to the snowy slopes.

Gwynn watched her go until her path took her from his sight, then pushed closed the door. He returned upstairs, and here, in the common room, he found Seth waiting for him at a table next to the low embers in the stone fireplace. He sat at the table and poured himself some wine.